


i run away from you, into your dreams

by babykanima



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, written directly after 3x13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2018-01-07 21:18:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babykanima/pseuds/babykanima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski loses his mind on an in-between year.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i run away from you, into your dreams

**Author's Note:**

> this was written very quickly and very badly and if you're reading this i'm so sorry but blame 3x13.
> 
> also, the sterek is very, very minor. blink and you'll miss it.

 

* * *

Stiles Stilinski dies on an in-between year.

* * *

He dies in the coldest bath in probably _history_ smack bang in the middle of his best friend and his best friend’s ex-but-totally-meant-to-be-because-of-true-wuv girlfriend, surrounded by people he supposes he trusts enough to if not keep him alive then well, kill him if he asks.

The girl he thinks he might love is holding him down, her perfect fingernails digging into his shoulders hard enough to draw blood and he has just enough time to think (a millisecond really, long enough to make his jaw clench at the memory but not long enough to savour, to explore), _oh yeah. Lydia Martin kissed me today._

Then he’s under the water.

“You know when you’re drowning you don’t actually inhale until right before you black out. It’s called voluntary apnea. It’s like no matter how much you’re freaking out; the instinct to not let any water in is so strong that you won’t open your mouth until you feel like your head’s exploding. Then when you finally do let it in, that’s when it stops hurting. It’s not scary anymore, it’s . . . it’s actually kind of peaceful.” He remembers saying that once. He’s a _liar_.

The entire process is not _peaceful_ in the slightest and all those panic attacks over the years are nothing compared to this because _jesus_ , it’s fucking _scary_. He is so scared.

He’s gonna _die_.

He’s gonna take in water and asphyxiate, might never see his dad again if this doesn’t work because sure, Isaac lived through it but he’s kind of not human and Stiles? About as human as you can get.

_This might not even work._

So no, not peaceful.

Not even a little bit.

Still, he fights, you know. Not the water or the deceptively weak looking hands holding him down but rather he fights his own body, fight to die because he _chose_ this, didn’t he? No turning back now. All or nothing and all those other clichéd expressions.

No, instead he pushes away the advice given to him by Morell and goes against every neuron _screaming_ in his brain (and it sounds like Lydia all up in there and god that’s a bit screwed up isn’t it?) that he live. That he hold on. Wait to be rescued.

Because if he waits to be rescued this’ll all have been for _nothing_.

He holds the sides of the tub _so hard_ , forcing himself not to reach up, hurt Lydia, back out, let his dad get hurt and oh, jesus. His _dad_.

He cannot lose another parent.

* * *

Stiles Stilinski takes two minutes and forty seven seconds to die on an in-between year.

* * *

 

His hands started shaking (twitching) sometime between the car crash and holding up a roof and a giant magical tree with an aluminium baseball bat and honestly he couldn’t tell you which it was closer to, the crash or the life-saving heroics but the point is this;

They don’t really stop after that.

* * *

 

Stiles Stilinski made a _sacrifice_ on an in-between year.

* * *

 

“It’s not killing yourself,” Scott tells them all afterward, tells himself. “We didn’t— I _wouldn’t_.”

“Course not, buddy.” He murmurs back, rubbing his hands together because oh my god he’s so cold. Did Deaton turn the heat down as well as convince them to lie in an ice bath? What a sadist.

Allison squeezes his arm, fingers curling across his wrist, “We’re okay. Everything’s gonna be okay, now. We’re gonna find them.” She smiles at him, this tiny, strong little thing that briefly makes him think _no wonder Scott loves you so much_ before he’s shrugging off her touch and moving to get a towel, get some breathing room, jesus christ.

His skin had gone blue and his limbs had drifted to the top of a tub full of ice water and, Lydia tells him, he’s probably suffering from hypoxia at the very least and brain damage at the tail end of ‘worse’.

(“Seek medical attention from somebody who doesn’t also treat _dogs_.” She tells them, shooting a mean little look at Deaton.

“Pun intended?” Isaac jokes.

None of them laugh.)

After his skin returns to its usual pale and not the just-died hue he’d been rocking for a few too many hours, things seem to happen quickly. Allison leaves with her dad and Scott thankfully doesn’t see the sad little look Isaac throws her way before they both leave with Mrs. McCall.

Him? He throws up on the walk back to his poor, mangled (but hopefully fixable) jeep and his dad stands right there with a steady hand on the back of his neck and he thinks, god. God, _please_ can it be over now? Just for a little while.

He’ll take a few days and get right back to himself.

_Just give him a few days._

* * *

 

He gets a text from Scott in the middle of a stuttered confession to his dad about what he’s been up to the past few months. _derek & cora left town_

So Derek left as well, but you know. Apparently more permanently.

 _good on him._ He replies faux flippantly, heart constrcting painfully because he didn't get to say goodbye and doesn't that suck more than expected?

He's typing slowly and carefully because his hands won’t seem to stop shaking (but that has absolutely nothing to do with Derek leaving of course it doesn't) and his dad keeps looking from him to the liquor cabinet and it’s probably just all the police seminars that spout words like ‘shock’ and ‘dangerous slope’ he’s attended that’s preventing him from drinking this entire experience away.

_dude needs a break, maybe take a few months to evaluate what’s up with all the psycho women he seems to date._

Scott replies with a smiley emoticon and his dad reaches over the table to take away his phone, his fingers brushing against Stiles’ own and without warning Stiles is flinching away sharply before he can process that it’s just his _dad_ , jesus.

The kitchen is scary still as his breath comes out in one loud shudder, eyes lifting to meet his dad’s own equally wide ones and suddenly he needs to get out. He needs to _run_ or scream or, or, _something_ because he can’t _breathe_.

He feels like he’s drowning all over again.

“Yeah, I-I need to go.” He mumbles, jumping to his feet so quickly he knocks over the chair he was sitting on.

“Stiles?”

“I’m good.” He promises even as he’s stepping away from the table. “I’m _fine_. Can we just like, revisit this conversation later? I’m tired.”

His dad is watching him carefully, mouth set in a straight line and hands splayed out in front of him, like he’s showing him he’s weapon free and crap. _No_. This isn’t meant to be happening, none of this is meant to be happening. “Alright, son.” The Sheriff agrees. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He'd thought the lying would have stopped with the big werewolf reveal, actually. Guess he was wrong.

* * *

 

He wakes slowly and covered in sweat and for a long time he just focuses on breathing, on convincing himself he’s safe. He’s dry. He’s warm.

His crusted over eyes slide to the alarm clock near his head and the _4:34am_ shines a red glow across his side table. Something moves against his leg and he flinches sharply, sitting up and pulling back the blanket swiftly but there’s nothing there but _darkness_. But no, there was something there. A sock?

Something falls onto his shoulder and he recoils, crying out. He forces his still-shaking (and when will _that_ stop?) hand to reach over to turn on his bedside lamp.

Bugs, his mind registers.

Thousands of bugs.

They’re crawling up his walls, his floors, and _the noise_ , oh god it’s so _loud_. How didn’t that wake him up sooner?

They’re swarming up his legs and he can see them _moving_ , crawling over one another to get further up. Another falls onto his chest and he slaps it off, crying out in disgust. “What the _hell_?”

He jumps from the bed, feet crunching at the hit the carpet because they’re all over the floor and then he’s slapping at his legs and _what the hell, what the hell, what the hell?!_

His throat itches.

He coughs, once, twice, winces as he pulls whatever was stuck in his throat out and _jesus_.

He stares down at the twitching beetle in his hand, covered in saliva. In blood.

They’re inside of him.

He screams.

* * *

 

Stiles wakes abruptly and immediately leans over the side of his bed to vomit.

He flings himself from his bed, barely avoiding the mess of stomach acid and bile on his floor; stumbling because his feet are tangled in the sheets but it doesn’t _matter_ because he needs to _see_. He pulls the blankets away and _nothing_. He pulls his sheets from his bed, ignoring the ripping sound of his Batman sheets. _Nothing_.

He checks the floor, under his bed.

 _Nothing_.

There’s no bugs.

It was just a dream.

He doesn’t go back to sleep.

* * *

 

A few days (or maybe weeks, has it been months? It feels like months) later and he refuses to close his eyes for longer than a second or two.

Every time he closes his eyes he can hear scuffling and that chittering, chirping thing that beetles do in the summer. If he closes his eyes he’ll feel things crawling all over him. His Adderall has almost run out and his dad refuses to buy any more energy drinks for him and Stiles is barely up to going downstairs let alone the store to get them himself. 

He thinks maybe it’s worth it, worth getting dressed, getting out of his room for a little while but then he’s putting his jacket on (a perfectly acceptable non-leather one thankyouverymuch) and noticing his skin is rippling. “ _Ugh_ , what the–?”

His skin is burning, no _under_ his skin is burning and one of the small lumps slowly grows larger. He hesitates for just a second before pressing down on it. It twitches and it _hurts_. That _hurt_.

“Fuck.” He scratches at the lump and it moves again, further this time, pushing away the lumps surround it and he follows, biting his lip and pushing down harder. God, what the hell? _What the hell, what the hell, what the hell?_ He grabs his scissors.

Soon there’s blood dripping down his arm but he doesn’t care because that chirping, chittering sound is back and he’s getting closer to it. He’s going to get to the bottom of this. He’s going to find it and it’ll stop and maybe he can get some sleep. He flings the scissors away and presses his fingers into the cut, scooping blood out of the way. There’s so much, way too much. He’s going to puke again.

His fingers dig deep, through muscle and blood and nerves, and suddenly the chirping stops. His fingers brush against something slick and still and he grabs it, slipping and sliding as he does but he _gets_ it.

Stiles pulls it out, tiny triumphant grin on his face and his hands are shaking and he’s going to pass out, he feels like he might die again but it’s _out_ so its fine isn’t it?

He’s fine.

He wipes off the shiny thing, blood smudging across his hands even _more_ and stares down at it in confusion. It looks like a rock. A smooth, black rock.

The chirping starts again and suddenly his rock is unfolding from itself, suddenly it has legs and eyes and holy crap it’s another bug.

 _No_ , his minds supplies, _that’s a beetle_. _There’s a difference._

There’s beetles in him.

But wasn't that just a dream?

He screams.

* * *

 

He wakes up.

* * *

 

He’s bitten his tongue.

He’s doing Finstock’s econ homework and he’s bitten his tongue because a second ago there were bugs, _beetles_ , under his skin. He’s bitten his tongue and he tastes metal which means he’s bleeding so he’s bleeding because he bit his tongue because he just sliced open his arm and pulled out a beetle and absolutely none of that matters even a little because his mom is sitting on his bed staring at him while he tries to do homework.

“Are you real?” He asks.

“Is this real?” He asks.

“Am I crazy?” He asks.

She looks sympathetic, “Oh, sweetheart. Of course you are.”

Her hands brush back his hair. “You grew your hair out.”

* * *

Stiles Stilinski loses his mind on an in-between year.

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> an 'in-between year' is one of those years between the major milestones. not sixteen anymore but not yet eighteen, not eighteen anymore but not yet twenty one, etc.
> 
> it's that moment in time where you're waiting for something to change and you can feel it on the horizon, but it also seems so far away.
> 
> come and [ visit me ](http://clintssecretfamily.tumblr.com/)


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